LITMIR.BIZ

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almost lost the strength in her legs. ‘But it is one that’s been grown by the villa’s head gardener. He’s very talented.’

      ‘Right.’ He nodded and helped his father to his feet. ‘Thanks again.’

      She watched them leave with a heaviness weighing down her chest. He’d reminded her of her own grandfather and that same confusion in his eyes. Aging wasn’t easy.

      ‘Is that man okay?’ Francesca interrupted her thoughts as she went back into the small shop.

      ‘Yes, he’s fine now.’ Gracie rolled her shoulders back, fretting over what had happened. She should tell Rafe. She just wasn’t sure what she was going to say. ‘Back to it.’

      Hours later she looked out the window and saw Rafe pull in across the road. She grabbed the bags she’d prepared and dashed across to meet him.

      ‘You’ve packed some clothes?’ He grinned as he lifted them into the car for her.

      ‘No, some ingredients.’

      ‘Food?’ He glanced again at the bags. ‘You didn’t pack any clothes?’

      ‘I didn’t think I’d need any.’ She laughed and fastened her seatbelt.

      ‘But you need ingredients?’

      ‘I said I was going to try out your oven.’

      ‘You can’t be serious. You’ve been working all day and you have to be back at the bakery at stupid o’clock in the morning.’ He drove them back to the villa.

      ‘It’s a stress release.’ She giggled.

      ‘I can help with that.’ He sent her a look.

      ‘You can, by telling me which of my pastries you prefer for your party. I need to get it organised.’

      ‘And you’re going to bake naked, right? Seeing as you didn’t bring any clothes.’

      ‘I’m not—’ She broke off as music suddenly blasted from her phone. Her heart skidded—she’d saved that song for her mother. ‘I’m sorry.’ She glanced at Rafe. ‘I need to get this.’ She quickly swiped the screen. ‘Mum, are you okay?’

      ‘New brioche for breakfast.’

      Gracie’s heart sank at the code sentence her mother had always used for when they had to pack up quickly. ‘You’re moving again? Where to?’ Why? There was no need for her to live such a nomadic existence any more.

      ‘Portugal, I think,’ her mother replied. ‘I’m still deciding.’

      ‘You could come and visit me,’ Gracie invited softly.

      ‘You know I can’t return to Italy. Too many messy memories there. Look, I’ll call again soon with my new details. I just wanted you to know so you didn’t worry if you tried this number.’

      ‘Okay,’ Gracie answered, her heart sinking.

      ‘Bye, darling. I love you.’

      ‘Sure.’ Gracie hung up and then scrolled through her phone, deleting her mother’s contact details. Again.

      ‘Your mother’s moving?’ Rafe quietly queried.

      ‘Yes.’ She tried to smile to cover that old ache. ‘She never lasts more than a year in any one place.’

      ‘But she’s no longer in danger from the police because of hiding you, right?’

      ‘Right,’ Gracie answered. ‘But she runs away from any kind of conflict. I mean, any kind. She just can’t seem to settle.’ And Gracie hated that. Her mother never stopped long enough to learn to trust anyone or any place. She never returned. She just kept on running. Never faced what it was that she feared most.

      ‘How does she get by?’

      ‘Oh, she’s the best short-order cook you’ll ever meet,’ she said with a hiNt of pride. ‘No one can cook meals in minutes like my mum.’

      But Rafe didn’t smile back, he looked concerned. ‘You miss her.’

      ‘Yeah.’ Sadness bloomed again in the light of his perception. ‘She was never present. She was always worried, always working to make the next buck. Not that she ever cooked for me,’ she admitted ruefully. ‘She was too tired when she got home.’

      ‘Is that why you learned to cook?’

      ‘I only ever baked—it was only about the pastry. I liked the science and taking the time to get it right. I spent hours in our little apartments, with all those crappy ovens, trying all different doughs.’

      ‘Alone?’

      She caught his inflection and smiled.

      ‘But it was like therapy for you,’ he said. ‘That stress release.’

      ‘Exactly. And you have a really nice kitchen, Rafe.’ She got out of the car and headed into the villa with her bags to set up her space.

      ‘You’re not seriously about to make pastry now?’ He followed her into the room.

      ‘Actually, I am. Lots of little pastry cakes.’ Because she needed time to clear her head and working soothed her. But then she glanced at him, because she wasn’t alone now. ‘Is that okay?’

      ‘Of course. You know you’re free to do what you want.’ He lifted up the last of her heavy bags onto the bench. ‘But do you mind if I watch?’

      ‘You want to watch?’ She frowned. ‘I can’t make small talk, Rafe, I need to concentrate.’

      ‘I won’t distract you.’

      At that she finally smiled. Did the man not know he distracted her round the clock?

      Ninety minutes later she presented five petite pastries on a plate for him—all gilded differently. She’d used glossy sabayon, smooth ganache, gold leaf, poached pear crisps...and so much more. She’d gone with miniature, intense works of art. True to his word, he hadn’t distracted her—at least, not intentionally. He’d asked a few questions—to explain her methods—but otherwise he’d been quiet. And she’d relaxed into it. Now she saw the look on his face and pride licked. She was very good at what she did.

      ‘You really like to present perfection, don’t you? How am I supposed to choose?’ He groaned and selected one while studying the others with gleaming eyes. ‘You shouldn’t be working for anyone. You should have your own bakery.’

      She laughed. ‘Thank you for that compliment.’

      ‘I mean it.’ He watched her, the curiosity in his eyes now professional as well as personal. ‘I talked with a couple of local tourism leaders the other day. They said Bar Pasticceria Zullo has undergone a transformation in the last few months. It offers a far greater selection of sweets and is much more popular. Apparently the change coincides with your arrival.’

      ‘Perhaps it coincides with the tourist season,’ she muttered, her face heating. ‘More people in town buying stuff.’

      ‘You know that’s not it.’ He sent her a droll look. ‘Why do you hide your light under a bushel?’

      She wasn’t. She was happy doing her thing with the people she’d found. ‘Francesca has been really supportive of my ideas. I like working for her.’

      ‘But why not work for yourself? You’re doing all this work turning her business around for her. You should get the benefit.’

      ‘Speaks the guy who likes to own everything in sight, even when he doesn’t need it.’ She laughed. She truly liked Francesca and she liked being part of the village. ‘She’s a good friend.’

      ‘So you don’t want your own bakery? You have an amazing product, you have good ideas. You know you have a head for marketing the business.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Is

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